saturday night heat
I’ll cut to the chase. Men who can dance are my weakness. Scratch that. Anyone who has an iota of rhythm captures my attention. I could watch dancers for hours, for days. In fact, I have. With my mouth gaping open, my feet subtly tapping, and my eyes sparkling. Enraptured. Men and women both have the power to hypnotize me.
It was a mild Saturday night out to watch friends dance in a restaurant lounge. The kind of artistic and seductive dance that set hearts aflutter. Burlesque. It was the first time a lounge of this swanky caliber in Vancouver had been introduced to this particular dance genre, and I was excited both to see my friends dance and to watch the reactions of the sheltered guests. They had no idea what they were in for.
Before the performance began, my friend and I sipped on prosecco and struck up conversation with our neighbours. Scientists. Let me tell you, it’s not every day one meets a scientist. And this one certainly didn’t resemble one who conducts experiments in a lab. Dressed in a well-tailored suit and donning a pair of brilliantly striped socks he looked more like a banker, which was my first guess when sizing him up. He was visiting from Montreal and keen to discover the best of Vancouver. I assured him he was in the right spot for an eye opening experience.
Once he returned to conversation with his colleagues, my friend and I watched a new party of four enter the room. They were impossible to miss in any environment. They looked like they were straight out of an MTV show on 20-something socialites from Miami. Dressed with the unequivocal style of Europeans and exhibiting a youthful air of confidence, they strut into the room as though it were theirs.
We were taken by them, our eyes followed their every move. When two of the men started dancing on the second level of the lounge, we found ourselves smitten. The boys had the kind of rhythm usually found amongst Madonna’s backup dancers. They moved like Usher and Justin Timberlake. Each move of their bodies was calculated and synced as though it was part of a routine. I’m sure they had danced these steps before as a team.
Everywhere they went, they danced. Mere walking was not an option when music was playing. They weren’t from Vancouver. I could sense it on their skin. These boys screamed culture and carefreeness. I had my eye on one in particular… Johnny Depp cheekbones, dark skin, and deep, bottomless brown eyes. He was beautiful. Model was my first guess. Heartthrob was my second.
As he walked past us, I said hello and complimented him on the silk flourish peeking out of his blazer pocket. A thank you, flash of teeth, and twirl away, and I was besotted. From the balcony, he danced with his mate, pointing at me like I was a girl in the audience at a boy band concert. Have I mentioned NKOTB was my first concert? I needed smelling salts to stop me from swooning.
The area was cleared for the performance to begin and the heartthrob surprised me by joining me on my bench. I know I should stop being surprised when men pick me for companionship, but truly there were some beautiful young women in that room, and I was quite possibly the oldest of the litter. His name was Emilio. Spanish, raised in Brooklyn and living in Portland. Young in age, old in spirit. And I was correct in my assumption… model. Good lord. I was in trouble.
While I watched my friends dance, I felt Emilio watching me. It was unnerving, yet energizing. I felt the blood rush to my chest and cheeks. How could a man who was likely 8 years younger than me elicit such a reaction? It was usually the older set who had the ability to do that.
I was right about the reactions from the crowd towards burlesque. There were some delightfully shocked faces. Including one naïve young girl who lost all innocence when a bra was tossed at her to reveal a pair of tasseled breasts. I believe the moment changed her life forever.
Between sets, Emilio and his friends danced (obviously) in the now cleared area in front of me. Girls flocked to him in droves, all wanting to be close to his energy and beauty. While he casually danced with some to placate their desire, he kept his eyes on me. And at one point he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Do all women think of sex when they see a man who can dance?” I lost my breath for a moment, contemplating the question, visualizing salacious scenes. In the end, I merely gave him an eyebrow raise and coy smirk. It was all I could muster, and all he needed to be satisfied.
Having other plans for the evening, my friend and I prepared to disappear. Seeing me gather my belongings, Emilio rushed over. After exchanging phone numbers, he cupped my cheek and told me I was a rare natural beauty. The quixotic Spaniard in him was oozing out. Later that evening, I received a message from him: “I wish I had had the courage to kiss your delicious red lips” It was one last swoon before bed. Trip to Portland, anyone? A Depp doppelganger awaits.
My lessons from a bar stool:
Lessons for the ladies:
1. Never doubt your beauty and the power you may hold over men.
2. Note to self: test the theory of whether a dancer’s rhythm transfers to the bedroom.
3. Not all scientists are mad.
Lessons for the men:
1. Practice your dance moves at home. Points given if you can throw down a routine with a mate.
2. Direct your attention towards women who don’t throw themselves at you.
3. Dress up and find a phenomenal barber. Throw a handkerchief in your pocket, wear Oxfords on your feet, find a deep V t-shirt, and invest in a blazer with elbow patches. Subtly stand out.